


My Husband, The Astronaut

by bastardbones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Bad Ending, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Canon Compliant, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Drinking, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining Keith (Voltron), Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 11:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15662034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: As far as the world knows, the men on the Kerberos mission succumbed due to pilot error. A headline that implies both tragedy and failure, to which you, Takashi Shirogane, have most conveniently suffered.





	My Husband, The Astronaut

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this when Shiro's sexuality was announced and now that season 7 is out, forced myself to finish. This is the shortest and sloppiest fic I've written, probably. I took some obvious liberties and gave Adam a personality. I tried making him human.

Two minutes into sex and you’re exhausted. You slow yourself, hunched over, face hidden from sight. Adam asks if you’re alright, if you want to keep going.

“It’s okay if you’re tired,” he assures with soft discretion. You shake your head. It’s not okay. Your body will not respond, your erection is fading, and you have to be awake at 6 A.M. for drills. Adam encourages you with a gentle motion of his hips and your breath stifles. He does it again, hoping to reawaken some primal urge in your bones, but your thrusts are weak, your movements sloppy, and frustrated, you stutter to a halt. His fingers rake your hair and he murmurs, “Do you want to stop?”

“Maybe,” you say, mostly swallowing the word.

“What hurts?” Adam asks, point blank. You feel that like a jab in your arm, the way a needle enters a vein, cold and precise. You almost pull out of him.

“Do you wanna switch?” Transitionless. Diverged like prime time news.

“Not if you're in pain.”

Here's the thing about that: there is no cure for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Your muscles will weaken, destined for failure in two or four years, perhaps five with some luck.

Your future is this: an electric wheelchair and a eulogy.

“Adam,” you say.

You say, “Please, just fuck me.”

 

******

 

When you met Adam, you were still a teenager, and so was he, wearing a frown and a clunky pair of glasses. He had been highly recommended to the Garrison, same as you, for your impressive scores, talent, and discipline. Being perfectionists, you both rose to the top, becoming star cadets, battling it out for number one. Adam hated you for a short while, of that you're sure, although he'd never admit it. The two of you were rivals, there to provide each other some friendly competition, but when Adam prematurely crashed a simulator or scored a point or two below you, you felt the judgment and insecurity.

The first time he kissed you, you stumbled onto the floor. It had to be a prank. You had clumsy confessed your sexuality to Iverson of all people, but it was a tight-lipped secret among students. Adam crawled on top of you, folded his foggy glasses into his pocket, and kissed you again.

It's a Sunday and you're eating whatever cooks in the microwave in less than three minutes. When you retrieve your mystery meat, it is wet and floppy and Adam discards it before it can fester in your gut. He makes you a lunch that's quick and easy and mostly carbs, but your stomach is thankful. You peck the corner of his mouth. Before you can toss your plate in the dishwasher, he stops you with a look.

“What?” you say, not wanting to know.

He sighs. It's about the Kerberos mission.

In almost no time, it's an argument. He sits up, talks with his hands, his face a slideshow of emotions. One minute you're shaking, another, you're screaming, another, you're holding him, kissing him, and another, he pushes you away.

“Fucking liar,” he seethes. When you reach for him, he slaps your hand away, “Don’t touch me.”

You're physical, both of you are. You're physical in a way that might suggest violence if either of you were completely unhinged. He pushes against you, weakly, as if he wants you to overpower him, wants to be squeezed in your arms. It's a dance, he sways, you sway. When it gets too ugly, too intense, you're tempted to cover it in kisses. It's how you neutralize most issues, with your face between Adam’s legs, with you beneath him. It's easier than resolution.

“I'm not changing my mind,” you say when Adam begs you to stay.

You do change your mind.

The next weekend, Adam drops to one knee and the tears come before anything else. You hold a hand in front of your face, concealing the red of your eyes, but peak when your boyfriend asks, “Will you?”

You collapse onto him with a kiss and a million affirmations.

That night you fall asleep with your fiancé on the couch, cushioned by pillows and his rising chest. You dream of white roses drifting in space, slowly unraveling, carried off in separate directions, like travelers on an unknown journey. It reminds you of dandelions in the wind, blown apart with a wish, scattered to new locations. Something about being in motion and time never standing still. You're awake before the sun, playing roulette with the remote, before settling with a classic film. You imagine life without technicolor.

Adam fucks you with a condom for the first time, since the first time.

Before you can question him, he's all over you.

He marks your neck, high enough so your uniform won't hide it. You squirm against him, his mouth, and make your displeasure known. He sucks beneath your jawline.

“Babe,” you groan. A warning.

“Turn around,” he instructs with a thick voice.

You plant your face on the pillow and raise your ass in the air. You roll your hips and let your eyes drift shut, withdrawing control, hungry for a mindless moment. He doesn't finger you for long and does it lazily, simple prodding and nudging to loosen you. Even shallow entry has you moaning. You want to get lost in it, you want to be his whore, screaming loud enough to warrant a complaint. When he slides inside of you, there's a second of silence, you having inhaled your breath, then a groan from Adam.

“You're so tight,” your fiancé sighs blissfully. Is it really any surprise, though? You're just barely prepared. The lube squelches as he pulls out, then thrusts deeper, and you're both overcome by the vulgarity of the noise, grinding hard against one another. He snakes an arm beneath your belly and pulls up, positioning you a bit higher. You let him manhandle you, then focus your strength on your knees, your hips, and all but ignore the burning sensation in your legs. Your body never tires of retaliation.

“There,” you choke as he hits your prostate. He aims for it again and you make an ugly, vulnerable sound.

“That's it, baby,” he praises. “That's it.”

You're like something dying over a tape recorder, a distant recollection of an event, authenticity stripped by layers of crackled audio and dying batteries. No one is coming to save you.

He comes, but you don't feel it, a distance between him, you, and the rubber. Your dick is aching, neglected between your thighs, a bead of pre-come at the tip. Adam slides out and you've barely composed your mind before realizing you're empty of him. All of him. Condom on the ground, like a glove after surgery, utilized to avoid illness and infection, crumpled hideously.

“I'm not contagious,” you promise to the damp pillowcase.

Adam answers with a questioning hum, still drunk from orgasm. Your heart is pounding in your chest, pumping with anger and insecurity. You grit your teeth, unsure if you're overreacting or are properly offended. You're finding the words difficult to repeat. Finally, Adam rolls to his side and strokes the prickly back of your head.

When he reaches for your erection, you flinch from his touch, and grabbing his wrist, you say, with that firm Garrison instructor voice, you say, “No.”

You interrogate him about the condom. Adam pulls on his glasses, as if to remind you he’s serious. You ask him if he's cheating on you, if he's having unprotected sex with someone else. He denies everything you throw at him. The more you talk, the more you sound like a whiny, assumptious boyfriend. You don't know how to explain to him that the condom made you feel filthy.

The two of you don't fuck for a month.

You trip over nothing twice that day, once caught by Sam Holt, the second by Adam, who insists you sit down and drink a cup of water. As he hands you another, you swat it onto the carpet.

“I'm _fine_ ,” you hiss.

You're embarrassed by your behavior and avoid his gaze. Adam pulls off your boot, then rolls up your pant leg, wordlessly massaging the cramped muscles in your calf. You start laughing without looking at him, but as soon as you turn, you're a deer in his headlights. You disintegrate into sobs as he works to soothe a pain you're too terrified to admit to.

Iverson suggests you take the day off.

You spend the evening flying with Keith. He clings to your waist and it feels like he's yours. Like you're meant to be beside him, nurturing him, protecting him. It's not quite paternal, but it's everything that love can be. You hit the breaks on your bike, except your body seems to respond a second too late. You stop just fine, no real problems - you are seemingly flawless. That delay haunts you, though.

“What's wrong?” Keith asks, smile vanishing from his face in an instant.

“Nothing,” you chuckle, but Keith knows it's fake. He's too smart for his own good. You worry about that sometimes.

Unprompted, you tell him that.

In the shower, as you clean the red sand from your hair follicles, Adam accompanies you beneath the warm spray. You're busy washing out conditioner when he pulls you in for a hug. Sighing, you lean against him. He lowers himself, down, down, until your cock is in his mouth and he’s swallowing. You shiver as he deep throats you, and it really turns you on, to see him that compliant. When you come, you watch his throat bob up, then down with your load. You pull him to his feet, kiss him breathlessly, elated by the faint, salty taste of yourself. Cloudy with want, you guide him from the bathroom to the bedroom, tossing him down, smothering him with kisses. You both make out until you're throbbing. You fuck him into the mattress and he goes from mumbling your name to begging in wet shouts. You orgasm, and for five perfect seconds, you don't care about Kerberos anymore.

“I don't want to miss another second with you,” he confesses, swiping the fringe from your face. “I just want more time.”

“I know.”

“We can't waste this,” he laments with a kiss. “I love you. I love you so much, do you understand that?”

“I understand.”

“Please, look at me, Takashi,” he begs.

It's a Thursday evening and you're drinking with Matt, nothing complicated, just bottled beers. Your head is floating, your buzz is pleasant, and you can't remember when Keith entered the room. He inspects the empty bottles, taps them with his finger. You give him a questioning look.

“Can I have a sip?” he asks.

“It doesn't taste good,” you grin, amused by his boldness.

“Yeah, I know what it is,” he says with a hint of annoyance. Matt laughs.

Keith is 16; it's amazing he hasn't tried alcohol by now. This is the best scenario of any. Better here than a party, where he might be pressured to drink more than he wants. You're about to crack open a new one, but the teenager merely points to yours.

“My germs are on it,” you say.

“I don't care,” Keith shrugs.

“I don't know, you might get sick,” you tease in a sing-song tone, shiny, new bottle still held in offering. Keith swipes yours so fast it stuns you, chugging down the remainder of the beverage before you can stop him with an authoritative, “Hey. Hey!”

He sprints away. You're sober enough to chase him, but not to catch him.

“You're going to jail for endangering a minor,” Matt cackles for the rest of the night.

Friday morning and Adam is kissing you awake. Groggy with sleep (and a little hung over) you whine as he strokes you through your briefs. He makes a comment about how foul your breath is and you weakly punch him in the side. He gently works his tongue into your mouth, anyway. You're reminded how adamant Keith was about sharing his spit with you.

“I have an idea,” Adam says into your mouth, voice croaky like morning. You hum against his lips. “After we get married-”

“Yeah?” you disrupt him with an indulgent swirl of your tongue, deepening the kiss. He answers with a stuttering groan and you groan right back. You're feeling more inebriated now then you did last night.

“After we get married...” he tries again, still distracted, eyes fluttering shut.

“You're gonna fuck me ‘til I cry?” you suggest with a roll of your hips, all but batting your eyelashes. He smacks your ass.

“I can do that right now.”

It burns when he pushes inside of you. Not the way your muscles do, a fire barely subdued by treatments and medications. He starts slow, but quickly builds a rhythm, bracing his hands on the headboard for momentum. You're nothing but a writhing mass, undignified, whimpering beneath a man.

“Kiss me,” you gasp, a million waves crashing over you. “Please-”

His lips meet yours, cascading, drowning you. You're incoherent as he pulls away, blubbering about nothing, just syllables and vowels erupting from a twitching mouth. Once upon a time, sex held some performative value to you. A desire to look, sound, and feel attractive. With Adam, there is no such performance, no expectations. Your face twists up, red from tears, and he only fucks you harder. It’s safe. It's cathartic. This is the man you're going to marry.

Once you're both finished in the shower, steam still rolling off your skin, Adam says what he's been meaning to propose, which is, “Adoption?”

“A kid.”

“Don't you want kids?”

Parenthood. You've thought about it, a child in your arms, comfortable in your grasp. “I don't want to abandon them.”

“You're not abandoning anyone,” Adam softly assures you. He takes a seat at the foot of the bed, where you’ve wrapped yourself in the comforter. He pulls on his glasses the way he does when a discussion is brewing.

He thinks you're talking about your illness.

“I'm talking about Kerberos.”

“I thought you weren't taking Kerberos.” You can see it in his eyes, that word comes up and it's like a flame. It ignites him from the inside. “Takashi, you _told_ me.”

“I changed my mind,” you try swallowing the lump in your throat that refuses to go down. “I'm allowed to change my mind.”

“At my expense?” Always at Adam’s expense. “Do I mean anything to you?”

“Adam, I can't just-” you fumble with the words. You recompose. “You know how much I want this. This could be my only chance.”

“It's me or the mission,” he threatens.

“Don't say it like that.”

“Those are your options.”

“Adam,” you reach for him, “please, don't."

“I'm not the bad guy here, alright?” His voice is thin and whiny. You simultaneously want to protect and hurt him for sounding like that. “You can't pilot this mission. It's dangerous and everyone knows it, but no one’s stopping you. I'm the only one. I'm the asshole for wanting you to stay.”

“You're not an a-”

“Yes, I fucking am!” he erupts. “I love you, I want to marry you, I want to be with you as long as I possibly can. I want you to really think about that, okay? Alright? You're throwing it all away on a whim.”

“This is my dream,” you shudder.

“It's a dying wish!”

It's true.

“I told you I was sick. I told you I didn't have a lot of time.” You're visibly shaking. You snap, “You knew what this was, Adam! You knew every step of the way. I didn't trick you into this. _You're_ the one in love with a lost cause.”

“So,” he says, eyes blurry with tears, “it's my fault for loving you?”

Hurt, you say, “Maybe so.”

“I want to be alone,” you say. And that's all you say.

The door slams quietly on his way out.

 

*****

 

Adam isn't there for take-off.

He hasn't returned to the apartment, he hasn't returned any of your messages, your calls. You wanted him to be here. You use to fantasize about kissing him in front of a crowd before a smooth departure. You use to imagine that goodbye. Keith, in his orange uniform, pulls you into a hug that might convince you to stay. You tells you he loves you, in all the ways that avoid those three actual words. He murmurs your name so sweetly you could cry.

You smile for the cameras, anyway.

As far as the world knows, the men on the Kerberos mission succumbed due to _pilot error_. A headline that implies both tragedy and failure, to which you, Takashi Shirogane, have most conveniently suffered.

(Five years later, about the time you should have been buried, you do see Adam again. You see him among a sea of names, reduced to a photograph and abbreviation, commonly overlooked. When you touch him, he is colder than you remember.)

**Author's Note:**

> Uuuuh, sure:  
> https://twitter.com/bastardbones


End file.
